Me and Mr Darcy (40 page)

‘Oh, Emily, do not distress yourself further. I was never far – I simply put on some fresh clothes and took a walk.’

‘. . . and I needed to see you, to tell you something . . .’ I swallow hard, twisting the handkerchief in the palms of my hands as I try to think of the right words.

But before I get a chance to speak, Mr Darcy says, ‘I feel exactly the same way. I too have something I need to tell you, something very important, something that I cannot hide from you another minute longer . . .’

I stop sniffling and look up with slight apprehension. He’s staring at me with that dark intensity, but whereas at first I found it sexy, now it’s making me really uncomfortable.

‘. . . something that will change our lives for ever . . .’

With a thud, what he’s saying registers. Oh, sweet Jesus, please don’t tell me he’s going to do what I think he’s going to do.

He drops to his knee in his front of me.

‘Holy shit,’ I gasp, thrown into a panic.

He looks at me, startled. ‘What is wrong?’

I falter. This is where you explain, Emily. This is where you tell him everything. About how you don’t want to see him any more, about how you’re too different, about how you want to say goodbye. About how you’re in love with Spike—

What?
Where the hell did that just come from?

‘Um . . . it’s all muddy,’ I manage to stammer. ‘Your breeches, they’ll get filthy.’

He looks at me and then gets up again. ‘That is what I love so much about you, Emily, you are always so sweet and thoughtful and amusing.’

I watch as he sits back down next to me on that little stone bench, flicking out his tailcoat, pulling at his breeches. Before, it had seemed so attractive, but now it seems stiff and fussy.

‘As I was saying, I have something I must tell you—’ begins Mr Darcy.

‘Look, I don’t think—’ I try cutting him off.

‘I love you, Emily,’ he declares, before I can stop him. He waits expectantly for my response.

Oh, God. I pause, then take a deep breath. ‘No, you don’t,’ I reply firmly.

He looks surprised and, I have to say, more than a little miffed.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Love me,’ I reply simply. And then, more determinedly, I repeat it again: ‘No, you don’t love me.’

Mr Darcy is taken aback, but he quickly recovers. ‘Emily! What would make you say such a thing!’ he declares, his features darkening.

I pause. And for a brief, magical moment I wonder what might happen if I were to change my mind. If I were to tell him I love him. If I were to choose the fantasy over reality. It’s so close I can almost touch it with my fingertips.

‘Because you love someone else,’ I blurt.

‘Who? I demand you tell me who?’

‘Elizabeth Bennet,’ I say firmly, and as the words come out of my mouth I know there’s no going back.

‘You know her?’ he asks, struggling to keep his composure.

‘Well, not exactly,’ I admit.

‘Well, then, let me assure you, Emily, I do not know what rumours you may have heard, but I met Miss Elizabeth Bennet for only a short time some months ago – November, I think it was – and I have not seen her since. It is you who has stolen my affections—’

‘No,’ I interrupt, shaking my head. ‘This is all wrong, you’ve got it all wrong.’

‘I thought so too,’ agrees Mr Darcy, his voice low and powerful. ‘But meeting you has caused a revelation within me, Emily. I do not want a woman like Miss Bingley, I desire someone feisty and opinionated, someone who can match me at my own game.’

‘Like Elizabeth Bennet,’ I persevere, partly because I feel a responsibility to the novel, and partly because I’m hoping this way he’ll get the message and I’ll be able to avoid our ‘talk’.

Mr Darcy throws me an impatient look. ‘Why do you keep talking about Miss Bennet? I barely know her,’ he protests indignantly.

‘But you
should
get to know her. I think you’d be perfect for each other,’ I continue. ‘I heard she’s . . . um . . . really got the hots for you,’ I say, trying to appeal to his ego.

‘
Hots?
’

‘It’s an American saying,’ I quickly explain. ‘It means she really admires you, thinks you’re attractive and honourable and . . . um . . . a great equestrian,’ I finish, crossing my fingers behind my back. God, if Jane Austen could hear me she’d kill me. I’m completely destroying one of her finest heroines.

Mr Darcy looks briefly impressed, and his chest seems to rise an inch or two, but he’s still not satisfied. Mr Darcy, it would seem, like most men, cannot take rejection.

‘Am I not making my advances clear?’ he insists, glaring at me.

For a brief instant I’m struck by my bizarre situation. Here is Mr Darcy, the most dashing hero of all time, telling me he’s in love with me. And here
I
am having a panic attack.

‘You’re not my type,’ I bleat weakly.

‘Type?’ he repeats in bewilderment, obviously never having heard of such a notion.

I make another stab. ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ I say, resorting to the old cliché.

His face changes colour and the muscle in his clenched jaw twitches violently. ‘But you told me you had dreamed of this moment, that being with me was like a fantasy,’ he cries. Jumping up from the bench, he begins pacing backwards and forwards, raking his fingers through his hair.

Did I? I can’t remember. I was so busy being swept off my feet, I was being swept away from myself.

‘It was. I did . . .’ I begin, and then falter. God, I’ve never been any good at breaking up with
regular
guys, but Mr Darcy? What am I supposed to say? That you weren’t how I hoped you were going to be? That you didn’t –
and couldn’t
– live up to the fantasy. But that it’s not your fault, because no man could. I’d set the bar so high no one could ever reach it. And maybe I’d done that for a reason.

Because Stella was right. I am a hopeless romantic. A silly, ridiculous, foolish romantic. I live in a fantasy land. I need to get real. And now, for the first time, I’m realising that I
want
to get real. I want a real relationship with a real man in a real world – with all the real problems, faults and whatever comes with it.

I glance up at Mr Darcy. Clasping his forehead, he’s leaning his elbow against a tree trying to compose himself, and I know now, more than ever, that I don’t want a romantic fictional hero declaring his undying love. Moonlit horserides in ballgowns might sound romantic, but they kill your ass – trust me, I have the bruises to prove it – and instead of someone reciting poetry, I want someone who can crack a funny joke or discuss the merits of the UK version of the
Office
versus the US
Office.

I want to go out with a man who’s nice to my friends . . .

(I have a flashback of Spike encouraging Rose with her headshot.)

. . . who’s sensitive and funny . . .

(Who can forget Spike doing the funky chicken on the dance floor?)

. . . a man who can express his emotions and not smoulder the whole time . . .

(Cut to my huge argument with Spike after the ball and him saying, ‘
You didn’t have to be such a bitch about it. I do have feelings, you know.’)

. . . who doesn’t mind me eating with my fingers or wearing sexy dresses . . .

(Remember when Spike looked me over in the ballroom and said, ‘
Nice dress
,’ with a nod of appreciation?)

. . . and is impressed, not horrified, by my job . . .

(‘
Crikey, that’s great
,’ said Spike in admiration when I told him about my work.)

. . . who won’t expect me to be able to play the bloody piano or sew samplers, but will hang out and watch
Changing Rooms
and—

‘Is there someone else?’ Mr Darcy is asking me stiffly.

Snapping back, I look at him and hesitate.

Oh, for Godsakes, Emily, just come out and admit it. To yourself and Mr Darcy. You don’t want to go out with just any man, you want to go out with Spike. He ticks every goddamn box.

‘Yes,’ I say quietly.

‘Are you in love with him?’

The breath catches in the back of my throat. Because as hard as I’ve tried to hate Spike, I can’t. In fact, I’ve gone and done exactly the opposite.

‘Yes,’ I say, and this time I don’t hesitate. ‘I think I might be,’ I admit, and I can’t help smiling.

Mr Darcy pales. I suspect he’s not used to being refused by ladies. But then he’ll have to get used to it, I think ruefully, thinking of the famous scene between him and Elizabeth Bennet when he asks her to marry him. And he will ask her. I’m sure of that now.

Quickly recovering, he stands before me now, hands clasped behind his back.

‘May I enquire one more thing?’ he says, and he says it with such formality that I feel a bitter-sweetness. Despite everything that’s happened, I’m going to miss Mr Darcy.

‘Of course.’ I smile, and then with slight trepidation add, ‘Ask me anything.’

There’s a pause as he composes himself and then: ‘What does he have that I don’t?’

‘He’s real.’

And as our eyes meet a large drop of rain splashes on to my lap. I glance upwards. As dozens more start to fall, big meaty drops that are splattering all over my face and running down my collar. The grey skies have turned black and threatening, and at that moment a splinter of lightning is followed immediately by a loud crack of thunder.

‘Quick, the storm must be directly above us,’ I cry. ‘We’ve gotta find shelter.’

Jumping up from the bench, I put my head down and dash for cover, but the rain has turned into a torrential downpour and the paths are all slippery and I can barely see as the rain is lashing my face so hard. And I’m running and running, and all the trees are bare, and there’s nowhere to shelter, and I’m getting completely drenched, and I’m never going to find my way out—

I stop dead. There, before me, is Lyme Hall. Large and grand, it’s just sitting there as if to say, ‘What took you so long?’ A huge smile breaks across my face and I feel a whoosh of relief. I’ve found my way out. I’m not lost at all.

I whirl round to tell Mr Darcy, but he’s not there. In fact, he’s nowhere to be seen, I realise, scanning my surroundings. Shit, where did he go? Maybe I left him behind, maybe he took a different path, maybe he’s gone back to wherever he came from.

No sooner has the thought struck than I notice the rain has stopped, just as quickly as it started. The birds are tweetering again, noises return, there’s a sweet, fresh smell from the grass. I feel a sudden, unexpected rush of euphoria.

‘Oh, look, there she is . . .’

Hearing voices, I turn round and see Rose and Hilary striding towards the grass with two colossal striped golfing umbrellas. I can’t help smiling. As someone who insists on wearing heels at all times, Rose is not one for taking country walks, and is picking her way precariously across the wet turf. Obviously the gift shop has proved a disappointment.

‘Hi.’ I wave, pushing my wet hair out of my eyes. ‘What brings you out here?’

Reaching me, Hilary throws me her ‘lawyer’ smile. ‘You, my dear,’ she says firmly.

I look at Rose for an explanation. Winded by the walk, she takes a moment to catch her breath, and then, in an uncharacteristic show of affection, reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze.

‘Can we have a word?’

 

‘
C
heers.’ I grin.

Making sure to keep my ‘little finger out’ (as instructed by Rose), I loop my finger through the handle of my gold-rimmed teacup and raise it aloft.

‘Cheers,’ beam Rose and Hilary, doing the same.

There’s a delicate chink of finest bone china as the three teacups come together, and I feel a burst of happiness.

God, I love England! What a civilised way to do business.

It’s the next day and I’m in London, at the Savoy, having afternoon tea with Rose and Hilary. It’s our last day of the tour. We arrived here this lunchtime and a lot of people have left already in a flurry of address-swapping and cheek-kissing (Ru-pinda wouldn’t go before making everyone sign up for her yoga retreat in Goa next year) and gone to catch various flights and trains home.

Maeve and I said our goodbyes first thing this morning. She was catching a flight from Manchester back to Ireland, and promised to call me next week after her first meeting with Shannon. She was nervous but excited, and there was a quiet confidence about her that was never there before. Ever since that phone call from her brother, the transformation has been incredible. The person who left today was so different from the anxious mouse I met only a week ago, and as I hugged her goodbye I got quite choked up. When I came on this trip I would never have thought I’d make such wonderful friends, especially not ones old enough to draw their pension. But then I’ve had a lot of unexpected things happen to me this week.

One of them being the reason I’m sitting here right now in this fancy hotel, on this plush velvet sofa, sipping Earl Grey and nibbling the tiniest triangle of crust-less cucumber sandwich that you’ve ever seen. I gobble it up in one mouthful. I’ve got that giddy, nervous exhilaration that makes me want to eat, even though I’m not hungry. I reach for another cucumber triangle. Saying that, these are rather delicious.

Things have been happening so fast I’m still trying to take it all in. When Hilary and Rose asked to speak to me yesterday I had no idea what it was about.

But Rose, being Rose, came straight to the point: ‘Have you thought of buying your bookshop?’ she asked, without even an introduction.

Coming from a woman wearing ten years of my salary in diamonds, I couldn’t help but smile. ‘I don’t think I’ve got enough in my savings account,’ I quipped ruefully.